This Quintessence of Dust
by darthsydious
Summary: Molly calls Mycroft when she can't get hold of anyone else. Big brother to the rescue. Angst Brigade. TRIGGER WARNING: Miscarriage and dealing with trauma.


_I am so sorry I forgot to put up a trigger warning, thank you guest reviewer for reminding me! _

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was fast asleep when his phone rang. To be specific, the line that only two people in the world had the number to. Reaching a lean arm out from under the covers, he found the receiver.

"Sherlock," he said, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice. "Whatever it is, I am certain it can wait until a more reasonable hour."

"It's um…" a sniffle. "It's Molly, actually, um…sorry, you were sleeping," he sat up in bed now, rubbing his eyes.

"What is the matter, Molly? Has my brother finally done something irreparably stupid?"

"No, nothing!" she answered quickly. "It's just…um…" he could hear her rustling in the background. "I'm having terrible pains, and Sherlock isn't here, and John's not here," her voice was choked, as if even speaking was an effort. "I'm scared, and I can't-"

"Where is Mary?" he asked, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for the light switch.

"I don't know, she's out-" there was a gasp, followed by a scuffling noise as if something was knocked over, a sob of pain escaping the pathologist.

"Molly-"

"Please, just send a car or call a cab or something, please Mycroft!"

"I'm on my way," he answered, recovering his composure. He hung up, grabbing his clothes and ringing down to the garage.

Twenty minutes later, he was at 221b, jogging up the steps. Anthea texted him that paramedics had confirmed they were on their way, and for him to go up and wait with her. He paused, knocking on the door quickly before turning the handle.

"Molly?" he called, finding both kitchen and living room were empty. The lamp had been knocked over, but other than that, there were no other signs of disturbance. Down the hall to the bedroom he could see the bathroom door shut, the light under the door shining out. He approached it, tapping lightly. "Molly, are you ill?" There was a groan of pain, and she seemed to be wiping something from the floor. "Molly…" he touched the door handle. Good manners dictated a closed bathroom door remained so until the occupant left. However, said occupant was in pain and she needed medical attention. "I'm coming in," he said. Before she could protest he pulled the door open.

Molly sat on the bathroom floor, red-faced from crying. Her pyjama bottoms were balled up in her hand, a towel was in the other. She sat in her button-down flannel shirt, sniffling as she tried to wipe up the blood. Red splatters ran down her pale legs in dreadful patterns. Mycroft did not even bother trying to hide his shock. He stared. Her pale hands were stained red. She was shaking, eyes trained on the floor, caught between shock and reason.

"The baby-" Molly choked out. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the towel, trying to wipe the floor. Carefully, he squatted down, taking her by the forearm.  
"Leave that be, Molly, you need to go to the hospital,

"The baby," she managed again.

"Yes I understand," he nodded, doing his best to keep his voice calm. "The paramedics are coming now." She let go of her trousers and let him help her stand. Her knees buckled, and without a thought to his suit he lifted her in his arms. Molly was almost numb and did not speak anymore, allowing Mycroft to wrap a sheet around her. He tapped out a quick text, asking Anthea to send a crew over to 221b Baker Street. It would do Sherlock no favors to come home and find the bathroom looking like a homicide happened there.

~O~

**St. Barts Hospital**

A specialist was called in, Mycroft stood by while a team of quiet, sturdy nurses cleaned Molly up. The word was out that Mycroft Holmes was in the building and it was a family emergency. Staff was on best behaviour, and those that knew Mycroft preferred them, dropped what they were doing and headed down to the emergency room. Gentle hands cleaned Molly, spoke softly to her, soothing her. Meanwhile Anthea had a cleaning crew in 221b, removing any evidence of what happened in the bathroom. While she waited, she looked up several excellent therapists for Molly to look into afterwards. The doctor arrived and Mycroft was ushered out while they prepped his sister in-law for tests.

~O~

**Sutton, London**

"Sherlock, that's the fifth time your phone's beeped, either check your message or shut it off!"

"It's only Mycroft," the consulting detective grunted. He was balancing on a chimney, reaching down into the stack, he scraped his finger along the inside, looking at the residue under the torchlight. His phone lit up again.

"Oh for pities sake-" John dug through Sherlock's coat pocket, swiping the screen. He read quickly. "Sherlock, we have to go,"

"What? Why?"

"It's Molly," John answered, holding out the phone so he could see. "She's in the hospital."

"What?" Sherlock snatched his phone back, reading the text. He tapped out a message, making for the fire escape.

_What happened? _

_SH_

_Unsure. She is in w/ doctor now. _

_MH. _

_We're at bugger-end of London, trying to call a cab is Hell. Don't suppose you could help out._

_SH_

_Sending a car. _

_MH _

Mycroft looked up from his mobile at the sound of the door opening. He stood, and the doctor motioned him inside.

"Mrs. Holmes is resting now," the doctor nodded to the part-way open door. A nurse moved back and forth inside, checking Molly's vitals. "I have sedated her to keep her calm, as well as to help with the pain."

"She mentioned something about a baby," Mycroft prompted. The doctor nodded slowly.

"Yes…I am sure you know already, she has suffered a miscarriage." Mycroft blinked, forcing his face into a blank expression.

"How far along was she?"

"No more than ten weeks, she told me she only just found out a week ago herself."

"What was the cause for her to miscarry?" he heard himself ask.

"Mother is healthy, her diet is healthy, and her family history is clean." The doctor shrugged helplessly. "Sometimes there are no answers. Miscarriage may happen for any number of reasons, not all of which are identifiable. Sometimes these things happen." Mycroft nodded.

"Thank you, please send in my brother when he arrives," the doctor nodded. The nurse appeared in the doorway.

"She is asking for someone to wait with her."

The room was warm and sterile. There was an IV drip going into her hand, the rest of her was covered up by the blankets.

"Where's Sherlock?" Molly asked, her voice slurred a little from the morphine drip.

"He's on his way," Mycroft replied quietly. She sighed heavily, feeling her throat swell as she tried to keep her composure.

"M'sorry," she murmured as tears escaped the corners of her eyes.

"If you're concerned for my welfare, might I redirect your misguided concerns back to yourself?" he said gently. She sniffled, looking up at the ceiling, face crumpling.  
"Sherlock didn't even know yet…he didn't know…I should have told him as soon as I thought I was pregnant but I didn't…" sobs shook her frame; she turned her face into the pillow.

Suddenly, a cool hand was placed over her forehead; it smoothed her furrowed brow, gently petting her hair. It was soothing, but she couldn't stop herself from crying all the more. Mycroft didn't expect her to stop, nor did he ask her to. For now he sat while she mourned the loss of her first child.

A shadow in the doorway made him looked up. Sherlock stood there, staring at Molly. John poked his head around his friend to see. Standing up, Mycroft gently touched Molly's shoulder.

"Sherlock is here," he said softly, and left her so. Sherlock remained in the doorway, almost afraid to go in. Mycroft paused for a moment. "Take care of your wife, brother mine," Mycroft said, and there was no bitterness in his voice this time. John watched the elder Holmes leave before turning back to the open doorway. Sherlock had climbed onto the bed, curling himself around Molly, covering her like a shield. She rolled to face him, forehead against his collar. He could feel her shake against him as she cried herself to sleep. Deft fingers stroking her hair, he bent and kissed her swollen eyelids. He said nothing, still grasping the fact that he had almost been a father, realizing that moment that he _wanted_ to be a father, as well as mourning the loss of his unborn child.

John slipped quietly away, deciding to give his condolences later. He headed back to Baker Street, picking up Ella from Mrs. Hudson. He sent a text to Mary, asking her to come home. On a night like this, a man needed his family.

_Where are you?_

_JW_

_With the gals still, what's up?_

_MaryW_

_Come home, please. There's been a loss._

_JW_

_Oh my god, who? Is it Mrs. Hudson?!_

_MaryW_

_No, Mrs. Hudson is fine. Please come home, Mary. Please. _

_JW_

_Omw_

_MaryW_

She bid the girls goodnight, fairly sprinting down the street, thankful the pub they'd headed for was just a few blocks away from home. She raced up the stairs, preparing herself for the worst. What if it was Sherlock? What if he actually got himself killed this time? Or heaven forbid Molly?! Good god, what would Sherlock do? Fearing the worst, attempting to prepare herself for whatever happened, Mary opened the door. She was a little surprised at the calm state of their flat. The light above the kitchen sink was left on for her, and the lamp in the bedroom was still on. Heading into the room, she found John there, Ella curled up on his chest, fast asleep. He was staring off into space, lips against Ella's head, fingers soothing circles on her small back.

"John," she said softly, he looked up, eyes watery. "What is it?" He held out his hand for her. Toeing off her shoes, Mary set her purse and coat aside, crawling up beside him, resting her head against his shoulder. In the still of the night he quietly told her of Sherlock and Molly's loss. They looked at their own healthy child; thankfulness for their child as well as guilt filled their hearts.

In his office, Mycroft sat with his head in his hands. Anthea paused at the door, about to ask what had happened. Before she could speak, she saw him shudder deeply; he scrubbed his face with his hands, sitting up.

"What is it, Anthea?" he asked his voice hoarse and weary. He did not turn to face her.

"Your brother's flat, everything's been taken care of." She said quietly.

"Thank you. I'm sorry for sending you out at this time of night."

"It was no bother," she answered. He remained in his chair, looking out the window to the dark garden below. His elbows wobbled on his knees, holding his head in his hands. On light feet, Anthea approached him. He started at her hand on the back of his neck, and she gave a comforting squeeze. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the middle-distance. If tears hung in his eyes, she pretended not to notice.

"The most common thing in life is life," Mycroft said, his voice bitter and sharp. "It helps no one to mourn."

"Then why are you?" Anthea asked gently. Mycroft had no answer. He had not the strength to snap at her, nor the desire to.


End file.
